


Run, Run, Lost Boy

by samemistakes



Category: Peter Pan & Related Fandoms
Genre: F/M, Self-Harm, Warnings May Change, implied depression
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-18
Updated: 2015-07-17
Packaged: 2018-04-09 21:34:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4364993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samemistakes/pseuds/samemistakes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tell me the story<br/>About how the sun<br/>Loved the moon so much<br/>He died every night<br/>To let her breathe</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Five years have passed, and Peter hasn't come back for Wendy. Until one night, he does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Run, Run, Lost Boy

**Author's Note:**

> I have had a crush on Peter Pan since I was a little kid, and I always wanted to write an original story about him and Wendy. This is it. Enjoy!

You can never visit the same place twice.  
Each time, it's a different story.  
By the very act of coming back,  
you wipe out what came before.

\- The Last Little Blue Envelope by Maureen Johnson

 

 

Wendy Darling was seventeen when she saw Peter Pan again.  
She didn't see it coming. It had been years since he had last appeared at her window, watching her sleep, even though she rarely slept these days, always hoping he'd come to see her again. And when he had, once or twice after, it had been all brief glances cast through glass, watching the thin face of the girl illuminated by the street lights. She hadn't felt his eyes on her in a very long time.  
Michael and John used to wait with her. They would sit in front of the large window that faced the street, all wrapped up in their blankets, shivering in the late winter. When the summer came along, they all used to lie on their bellies, awaiting the darkness with hope, but also fraught with anxiety. And then, when the next winter arrived, John didn't bother waiting anymore, though Michael used to sit with Wendy a little longer, up until dawn enveloped the siblings in its foggy claws; then, he bid her goodnight and crawled under his cosy covers. Wendy knew he only did it for her. Neither of them expected him to come anymore at this point.  
As they grew older, Wendy could see it fading. In the way they talked, in the way they would spend their time watching TV on the new device their father had bought, all of them squeezed together on the small couch in the living room, instead of reading or making up stories. She saw it fading in the way they would roll their eyes did she ask them to leave the window open before they went to bed, even when the chill of the winter lurking outside made all of them shiver under their covers.  
None of them believed anymore. It was as if they didn't even remember their adventures in Neverland, didn't even remember the Lost Boys, the Mermaids, Captain Hook and the Pirates, the Indians, the Fairies. As if they didn't remember Peter. And being alone with the memory of him seemed like the most unbearable thing of all.  
Often, she found herself thinking that maybe, it had all been a dream. Maybe he didn't even exist, and with that, the only thing that made her so terribly fraught from the dull ache inside her chest was herself. Repeatedly, she caught her mind drifting off to the boy, never fully able to evoke his image inside her head. She knew he had broad shoulders whilst being so very thin, remembered the tiny freckles on his nose, his rather big ears, the ever-present glint lighting up his hazel eyes. He had never been particularly pretty or special in his appearance, and yet, Wendy had never seen someone who she thought of as more beautiful. He had his very special traits, on the inside and the outside, and god, Wendy could still hear his bright laugh resonating in her ears when she thought about it long enough. That's when it hurt the most.  
She hadn't ever completely given up on Peter. She still hoped for him to peek through her window one night, gathering up enough courage to talk to her, let her touch him once again, even if only for a brief grazing of skin; even that would be enough to light the fireworks inside her again, and with that, enough to numb the pain that constricted her lungs ever since he had been gone. To let her breathe again.  
And yet, she found herself thinking that maybe, it was for the better. She had grown up. If it wasn't for the occasional glance in the mirror that let her flinch walking by, her thoughts told her as much. They were darker than when she had met him, only some streaks of the brightness seeping through sometimes, when she was at her best. And to be honest, without Peter, she didn't know if she ever was. If she would ever be again. Maybe it was for the better. Quite frankly, she could not bear the thought of him seeing her like this, all grown up, her hair shorter, her chest fuller, her eyes telling about the things that lay behind her. If there was one thing he hated more than the pirates on the Island he lived on, it was adults.  
The most frustrating thing was that she had been twelve years old. It had been five years and she still wasn't over him. She had been a child, that much she knew, and so she was aware of the fact that what she felt was invalid.  
“Your feelings aren't invalid, Wendy,” John had said one evening when she'd sat on the window sill, watching him lie down as he switched off the light on his bedside table. “They are valid because you feel them. One doesn't just feel something totally of the blue, you know.”  
After that, it had been quiet for a long moment, only interrupted by her brother turning in his sheets to find a comfortable position. When John had spoken again, his tone was guarded, and very, very quiet. “But he's gone, Wendy. I know he was very special to you, but you have to let him go. That's what Michael and I did – you can't hold on to things forever. If they love you, they will always come back to you.”  
And that struck her. She knew John hadn't meant it to, but that very thought kept her awake at night. That she had never meant anything to him. That he hadn't come back for her because he hadn't even been thinking of her. And that possibility made her feel so pathetic; to miss someone so much when they didn't even waste a moment in their wake thinking of you.

So when it happened again, after all these years, she didn't expect it. As usually, she left the window open when she climbed into bed, carding a hand through her hair and letting out a heavy breath when she sank back against the cushions. She had long abandoned sitting in front of the window for hours, feeling too broken when she gave up and went to sleep.  
But always, always, in the back of her mind, she would leave an ear open to any possible telltale sounds, any unfamiliar shadow flicking over the dimly lit wall, any tiny glow caused by the little fairy's wings carrying her through the air.

When she woke up that night, it was to utter darkness and a strong grip on her shoulder, fingers biting into the flesh under her thin night gown, and she sat up straight so abruptly that she felt her spine crack. Her fingers flicked over the bedside table, hastily fumbling for the light switch, and when she finally found it, her eyes needed a few seconds to adjust to the sudden brightness that illuminated the room.  
Her heart skipped a beat when they landed on what had woken her up. His hair stuck upwards in all directions on his head, a messy mop of dark curls framing a thin face, the hazel eyes hidden by shadows, his jaw strained. Something bright fluttered around his shoulders, wildly skipping from one side of the room to the other, ringing like a tiny bell, but she paid no attention to it. Her eyes were fixed on the boy at the end of her bed. He hadn't aged one bit. Her heart was hammering against her ribcage as if it was intent on escaping. For a long moment, there was silence, and then, he took a step forward, and Wendy could see his eyes. They were wide.  
“You,” he muttered, and his voice shattered her into pieces. It was as familiar as her own pulse, as the blood rushing through her ears, numbing every sound except this one.  
“You shouldn't have,” he said now, frowning, his fingers gripping the wood of her bed frame tightly. Wendy didn't know what to say. Didn't even know if she was able to speak at all.  
“I couldn't help it,” she whispered eventually, and then, she cast her gaze downward; she couldn't bear looking at him any longer, too afraid that he might disappear in front of her eyes.  
“You could,” he said, his voice full of hurt. “You could have stayed with me.”  
At that, she looked up, a look of reproach taking over her features. “I couldn't. How could I ever? My family is here. I belong here.” Her fingers curled into her sheets, pulling them up to cover her thighs. She could sense his burning gaze following her movements.  
“I told you to stay with me. I told you not to give up, ever.”  
Wendy bit her lip, her body tense. She could feel her pulse flutter when she pressed her thumb to her wrist. “There is a difference between giving up and knowing when you have had enough.” She turned her face away again.  
Peter huffed out a breath, running a hand over his face. Then, he came closer, slowly, as if Wendy was a wild animal and he was afraid of being bitten. Wendy felt the mattress dip under his weight when he sat down on the very edge, careful not to touch her.  
Neither of them said anything. He did not even look at her. Wendy had a feeling he couldn't bear to see her like this, all grown up, with contempt in her eyes. She hated him, and he knew.  
“I missed you,” he said. What a liar. Her heart was breaking her collarbone.  
“I would have liked to write to you,” she said, her voice even and controlled. “Just to remind you that I'm still here. I couldn't, of course, even if I wanted to, but also, I remembered something. That you know I'm here. You just didn't care.”  
At that, he took a sharp breath. She saw the hurt flicker over his features, only briefly, but clear enough to ease her heartbeat a little. Just enough for her to make sense of the tangle of thoughts in her head.  
“You shouldn't have grown up,” he said again, and that was all. She hadn't ever expected him to explain himself. That just wasn't like him. But that didn't make up for how much she wished he would. Nothing would comfort her more than soft confessions and whispered vows carried by his voice, even if it was all lies.  
She said nothing. After what felt like an eternity, he slid a little further up the mattress, resting his cheek against her shins, and she sighed when she felt his touch through the layer.  
“Come with me,” he whispered, and she shook her head, smiling, her heart heavy in her chest.  
And even though she knew it was all wrong, that it would haunt her until the end of her days, she reached out a hand and touched his hair, carding her fingers through the thick curls, scratching lightly at his scalp. He exhaled, and she closed her eyes tightly, her lips pressed together in a thin line, willing him to take her with him and at the same time, knowing that she could never, ever live the life he wanted her to be a part of.  
“Please,” he said, looking up at her, his eyes filled with a feeling she could not determine. Regret, maybe. Loss. He looked as if he genuinely believed that if he asked her to, she would comply. And that reminded her of who he was, and how he thought the world was working.  
“You're still a child,” she whispered, biting her lip, and she saw him flinching.  
“You can be one, too,” he said, “again. If you only come with me. Don't you remember what you told me back then?” He sat up a little straighter. “Ask what makes you come alive, and go do it.”  
His expression fell when she shook her head again. “I could never feel alive again, there. I have yet to find a place that makes me feel what I felt when I was younger.”  
When he spoke again, he didn't look at her. Instead, he stared at her fingers that were still clutching the blanket. “I made you feel alive.”  
She nodded, tasting bile in the back of her mouth. “That you did.”  
The sound of a car driving by broke through the silence, and the passing cone of light illuminated Peter's features. He was still so, so young. Wendy's stomach clenched.  
His gaze wandered to the boys sleeping in the beds next to hers. Although he didn't let it on, Wendy could see him frowning when the light hit their faces.  
“You should have stayed in Neverland,” he said, sadness taking over his features. “I don't understand, though. You look like this, but you still feel the same.” He looked at her with sincerity.  
“I don't know, Peter.” She sighed. “I am older. I am. But I don't remember growing up, really.” He was eyeing her up as she spoke, and she felt uncomfortable under his gaze.  
“I don't remember the point when adults started cursing around me without apologising, or when I was allowed to get my own food or when I stopped sliding into my mum's bed after having a bad night.” That was probably due to the fact that she didn't dare to leave her room at night, afraid that if she did, she would miss Peter paying her a visit. But she kept silent about that, continuing to speak with her gaze cast to the ceiling. “I can't remember when my mum stopped chopping my food up at dinner, or when she stopped checking on me while I was in the bath. I don't remember things changing, I don't remember growing up. And yet here you are, and all you do is sit there like I did everything wrong, as if I had any influence at all, and remind me of what I have become.”  
He just looked at her, with no expression at all. As the moments passed, his gaze turned examining, blooming with determination. “You're still my Wendy,” he said, “you can be one of us again, if you just agree to come to Neverland with me. Run away with me, Wendy. Please.”  
Suddenly, there was Tinkerbell again, ringing through the quiet room like a heavy church bell, leaving a trail of pixie dust where she flung through the air, and Wendy smiled. “Hey, Tink,” she whispered, gaining a bright sound of joy in return.  
Then, she sighed, defeated, sinking back against the cushions, her chest feeling heavy with all the things she'd felt for so long and didn't say. “Neverland is no place for grown-ups,” she declared. “You said so yourself. 'Once you grow up, you can never come back.'”  
She felt Peter shifting, casting no shadow at the wall.  
“Where is your shadow, anyway?” she asked, bewildered.  
The boy shrugged, lost in thought. “You're not all grown up,” he said. “It's not too late for you. Neither for John and Michael, actually,” he said with a glance at her younger brothers.  
“I'm almost there, though,” Wendy said kindly, reaching out a hand to touch his on the blanket.  
“No,” Peter huffed. He didn't react to her touch, didn't even cast a look at it. “You just have to believe.”  
His whole expression turned pleading, and once again, he reminded Wendy of a petulant child that wanted things his parents insisted were not good for him.  
Repeatedly, her eyes darted to the two boys sleeping next to her. The light of the moon hit the glasses on John's bedside table, the glasses he rarely wore these days. He was almost fourteen, his nose stronger, his attitude bolder, and more often than not, Wendy found herself arguing with him. Sharing a room with your younger siblings could be hard at times, especially when the money got tighter with every month and the whole family had to make cuts everywhere, not only including books and clothes, but also what they would have for dinner – their weekly Sunday roast was basically non-existent at this point. It had been half a year since they had to rent out the rooms on the ground floor, and many evenings, Wendy would encounter her father sitting at the dimly-lit dinner table, the heels of his hands pressed against his eyes, his glasses dangling loosely from the cord around his neck. In front of him would be a pile of documents and opened, formal-looking envelopes, and when her father noticed her leaning in the doorway, he would reach out a hand and squeeze hers tightly, attempting a smile but failing, and she'd smile back, trying to put everything she didn't dare to say into it.

It was the same smile that she gave Peter now.  
“I miss you most at night,” she whispered.  
His gaze didn't leave her face. “You'll be back before tomorrow even dawns.”  
And then, she nodded.  
His eyes brightened, the familiar glow returning to them as soon as he was sure she actually agreed, and then, he squeezed her hand, a massive smile taking over his face. “Thank you,” he said, “thank you.”  
Wendy could taste blood in her mouth where she'd bitten the inside of her cheek. It had been five years and still, Peter's smile could make her feel like she'd burn the world down if he asked her to.  
She knew it couldn't ever be a good idea, and yet, she almost felt like she didn't care. There was no time existing in Neverland. She could be back before daylight, and she was sure that Peter would take her home if she asked him to, but that was not the question that stung in the back of her head. More so, she was aware that if she was to go with him now, maybe, she wouldn't ever want to come back again. It was such a sweet, miserable temptation, and he was smiling at her with mischief in his eyes. She should have known that villains often come with pretty faces.  
“I'll go with you,” she said as a matter of fact. “But only if John and Michael come with us.”  
Otherwise, I'd be stuck on there, was what she left unsaid.  
When they first got to Neverland, she had been the one that dragged them home, that told them to think of their mother and father, of London, of Nana. Now though, she hoped that they would make her see reason in the mess she was about to fling herself into. John had grown up a lot.  
“All right,” replied Peter, already getting up to wander over to Michael's bed. Wendy stopped him with a hand around his wrist.  
“Be nice.”  
“I'm always nice,” he said with a bewildered look, but not loosing his smile, never loosing his smile.  
He wasn't. He was bossy and childish and petulant and frivolous, and she wished she didn't like him one bit.  
“Hey,” he said now, with a hand shaking her brother's shoulder. “Wake up, Michael. Wake up. It's time for adventure.” He stretched out the last word like a promise, and Michael frowned in confusion, his eyes blinking against the small light that Tinkerbell's glow cast over his face.  
“Peter?” he mumbled in a sleepy voice. “Peter Pan?”  
The other boy laughed, nodding excitedly. “It's me, Michael. Did you miss me?”  
Michael sat up straighter, rubbing the sleepiness out of his eyes with the heels of his hands. “It can't be,” he said, leaving Peter's question unanswered.  
“It can be,” Peter assured him, and then, Wendy saw recognition dawn over Michael's face, and the next moment, he was hugging him tightly, one hand clutching the other boy's shoulder whilst laughing. Over him, Tinkerbell let out a delighted tinkle, pixie dust leaving her wings in tiny sparkles, landing all over Michael's back and pillow.  
Over Peter's shoulder, Michael cast an appraising look in Wendy's direction, letting his eyes, still framed by happy crinkles, take in her tense features.  
She was still clutching the sheets, and as she gazed back, she could see Michael's expression sober up a little. He had just turned ten, and he was more aware of the things around him than Wendy would have liked for someone this age. She felt exposed, and she did not even exactly know why.  
“I can't believe it!” he exclaimed nevertheless, his voice strained with bafflement. “I wouldn't have thought that we would see you again, ever!”  
Peter laughed, a bright, carefree sound that didn't fit into the room at all. “Well, well, how boring would life be if no one believed in miracles anymore?”  
The sound seemed to have startled John, who shifted in his sheets, blinking in their general direction. “What's going on?” he asked, reaching for his glasses.  
“It's Peter, John!” Michael said, and John shook his head. “Again, Michael? Don't talk rubbish, I thought we'd already established that-” His voice stopped abruptly when he finally succeeded in putting the glasses on, and his expression turned utterly startled.  
For a few moments, there was silence, only interrupted by the ringing sound of Tinkerbell's wings, and then, John cracked the tiniest smile. “Who would have thought,” he said, nodding approvingly in Peter's direction. “Peter Pan. And you haven't changed one bit.”  
To Wendy's amazement, he made no move to hug him as Michael had done before, but Peter didn't seem to be surprised at all.  
“Live and in colour,” he replied instead, grinning like a Cheshire cat. “You've grown, John.” That, he said with a little frown, a tone of disapproval hidden somewhere in his voice, but to Wendy, that was the clearest part. He'd left them to grow up and come back five years later wondering how that could have happened, giving them a look as if they had done something naughty to be ashamed of. Wendy tipped her chin a little higher. She refused to be ashamed of who she had become. He certainly hadn't seemed to care before, so why was he here now? Why did he suddenly want her to accompany him?  
“Well, that's what happens here in our land,” John said, shrugging, eyeing Wendy in his peripheral vision.  
They knew her far too well. She couldn't help but notice the tension to his shoulders, the straight line his mouth was set into, and then it hit her, the sudden awareness that she was the reason for his strange attitude. He didn't approve of Peter's visit. For her sake.  
“How's things in Neverland?” she asked to lift some of the tension in the room, earning a raised eyebrow from her brother. She had never felt so obvious in her life, but no matter how much hurt Peter had caused her, she didn't want him to feel out of place. Because he never was if in a room with Wendy.  
“Just as always,” Peter replied, his tone light. “Things there never change, you ought to know that.” Again, there was that disapproval swinging in his voice, and Wendy bit her lip.  
“Anyway,” he continued, directing his gaze at her brothers again. “Are you up for a journey?”  
He had clearly expected them to joyously agree right away, because when they didn't, a look of astonishment took over his face.  
Michael, for his own right, looked rather uncomfortable, shifting in his seat and casting side-glances at his older brother, who always held the strings these days.  
Now, however, John looked thoughtful, his eyebrows pulled together. “I don't know, Peter,” he said. “I do have school tomorrow, and so does Michael.” He didn't include Wendy for she had already finished her education, helping her mother with the household before she would take off to Paris. It had been in the planning for over a year by now. She was glad Peter didn't care enough to ask.  
“School!” he exclaimed, laughing, tapping his knee as if it was the funniest joke he'd heard in a while. “Learning! Responsibilities! Young John, what has become of you? Where is your sense of adventure?”  
Her brother kept a straight face, though his eyebrows climbed a little higher. “What do you think, Pan? It has been years. I've grown up, of course.”  
None of them had ever addressed him as Pan before.  
Peter looked a bit taken aback, but quickly recovered from the blow. “Well, then I'd say it's urgent time for you to be children again!” Noticing John's expression still hadn't changed, he added, “you'll be back before anyone even notices you're gone, I've told Wendy before.”  
At that, John turned his head to look at his elder sister. “You want to go with him?” he asked incredulously.  
After a moment, Wendy nodded. “I do.” She dropped her gaze so she wouldn't have to see the expression in John's eyes. “Just for a bit. We'll be back before tomorrow.” Even to her own ears, it rather sounded like she wanted to convince herself over her brother.  
Either way, he seemed to sense that she would go whatever he may say, so eventually, he nodded, and Peter cheered.  
“Oh, bodacious!” he exclaimed, making all of them laugh, except Wendy.  
“Just,” she said, drawing all of the boys' attention to her, “let me put on some clothes this time. I don't enjoy running around in my night gown for god knows how long.”  
Peter didn't say anything; he simply nodded, his eyes filled with something she couldn't place.  
After a few more wild heartbeats, she drew the sheets back, standing up to approach the wardrobe in the corner of the room. She was wobbly on her legs, and she had no reason at all to feel embarrassed to be in her night gown in front of the boy, as she had been before, but still, she could feel her cheeks flushing. She was glad it was too dark for anyone to notice.  
Without much of a fuss, she decided on a velvet dress, the dark blue colour shimmering in every possible shade when she stroked a finger over the soft fabric.  
When she turned around, she saw that her brothers had also stood up, respectively walking to their dressers. They would probably change in here, but she was too old, now. That knowledge seemed to follow her all night. Mostly when she looked at Peter.  
As quietly as she could muster, she opened the door and peeked out of the room. The corridor lay in silence, a blanket of darkness spread over it, lulling them in as if they were separated from everything around them. On her tiptoes, she sneaked her way over to the bathroom on the other side. When she had locked the door behind her, she leaned against it, taking a deep breath and sliding down with her back pressed to the smooth wood.  
Peter didn't exactly look like a child. She didn't know anything about his life before Neverland, and she wondered it he even did himself, but he must have arrived at the Island when he had been around fifteen. All the Lost Boys had always looked a little younger to her, Tootles probably being eight years old, the Twins maybe even six. Nibs had probably been the closest to Peter's age, but the longer she thought about it, the less she found herself to be able to conjure up his face. It had been five years. And anyway, weren't they all so much older than their appearance let on? Maybe they all were hundreds and hundreds of years old. She wouldn't ever know. They probably wouldn't know themselves, considering time never sneaked up on them to snatch them out of the fantasy that kept them believing they were the same person, still.  
Sighing, Wendy held onto the door handle for balance as she hauled herself up onto her feet, catching her own eyes across the room in the small bathroom mirror. She looked tired – dark circles underlined the redness of her eyes, and her pupils almost swallowed the dark blue whole. Funny, she thought, how fast he can prey me of my sleep again.  
She smothered down her hair as well as she could, then let her thin night gown fall onto the cold tiles to slip into the blue velvet dress. The colour was almost the same as the night outside.  
When she was all done, she didn't look back before she slipped into the corridor again.  
The house was still quiet, but she could hear the muffled whispers of the boys behind the bedroom door. Really, she didn't feel quite ready to face them again, and at the same time, this was as ready as she was ever going to be, that much she was aware of.  
When she opened the door, he was still there, floating a few centimetres above the ground, pixie dust enveloping him like a thin blanket. When she glanced over, it was to find Peter studying her intently, something cautious about his eyes, features caught in the flickering light of Tinkerbell's wings. She was the first to avert her eyes.  
“All set?” John asked, the little tilt to his mouth still present. His gaze was hard on his sister, and she knew all too well why.  
She nodded, though, and Peter clapped his hands. “Wonderful,” he said. “Your turn, Tink.”  
The little fairy gave an excited ring as she flew over each of the siblings respectively, coating each of them in the glittery substance. Michael and John both initially took off from the carpet, but Wendy stayed where she was. There was no feeling of weightlessness, no tingle in her stomach, nothing. Just the reproachful look on Peter's face. “What's wrong?” he asked.  
Wendy shrugged. “I don't know. I told you, I'm a grown-up.”  
Peter pulled his eyebrows together, his mouth set into a hard line.  
“Rubbish,” he said, “you don't believe, that's all.”  
“That again,” Wendy scoffed, ignoring the tense look on her brothers' faces. “What exactly do you want me to believe in right now?”  
“Simple,” Michael answered instead of Peter, who crossed his arms.  
“That you can fly. It's not too late for you.” He smiled, reassuringly, as he probably thought, but to Wendy, it seemed doubtful.  
Fuck this.  
She closed her eyes, making an effort to ban all thoughts from her brain that didn't have to do with flinging herself into the air. It was still too loud, the buzzing of Tinkerbell's tiny wings hummed in her ears, Peter's little cough when nothing happened, cars outside, the muffled noise of pain that Michael released when he butted his head on the ceiling, more cars, and then –  
“You can do it, Wendy.”  
And she did.


End file.
